[Scene: Just after hours at the offices of Holy Mother Public Relations, Empyrean Building, Conference room whatsits. You know the one. Near whatdoyoucallhim. Around the ideal form of a conference room table sit Cassandra, Lizzy Twigg, Māyā, Banba, Jupiter, Mars, and Paddy Dignam. Mary, known to the world as the Holy Mother of God, Holy Virgin of virgins, Mother of Christ, Mother of the Church, Mother of divine grace, Mother most pure, Mother most chaste, Mother inviolate, Mother undefiled, Mother most amiable, Mother most admirable, Mother of good counsel, Mother of our Creator, Mother of our Savior, Virgin most prudent, Virgin most venerable, Virgin most renowned, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful, Virgin most faithful, Mirror of justice, Seat of wisdom, Cause of our joy, Spiritual vessel, Vessel of honor, Singular vessel of devotion, Mystical rose, Tower of David, Tower of ivory, House of gold, Ark of the covenant, Gate of heaven, Morning star, Health of the sick, Refuge of sinners, Comforter of the afflicted, Help of Christians, Queen of angels, Queen of patriarchs, Queen of prophets, Queen of apostles, Queen of martyrs, Queen of confessors, Queen of virgins, Queen of all saints, Queen conceived without original sin, Queen assumed into heaven, Queen of the most holy Rosary, Queen of families, Queen of peace, and CEO of Holy Mother Public Relations Inc., is standing at the door irritated as it is enough already with the honorifics so just shut up for the love of Christmas and let her call it a day already.]

Lizzie Twigg: Amen Cassandra. And Jupiter, well, that whole issue is better left unsaid for now. So, let’s get on with it then. We might need to change our placement around the table. Mars, Jupiter, you are sitting on the wrong side of Māyā.

Cassandra: Agreed. They are making mischief with the vibrations.

Māyā: मय सोन इस अन एक्ष्केल्लेन्त स्तगे मनगेर.

Mars: [Combative] But Buddha’s not Equity.

Banba: Krak!

Cassandra: Banba, that’s really unhelpful. Not that it matters, this séance isn’t going to work. Can you please return to human form so we can get on with it.

Banba: [Shedding black feathers everywhere and reappearing as a hag in a red cloak with red eyebrows and wailing.] Fine. But when you need somebody to fly through mirrors or some other nonsense don’t come flapping to me.

Paddy Dignam: [Only partially aware of his surroundings] Who are you people? What the hell is this? Did that bloody bird just turn into a woman?

Lizzie Twigg: So the idea is to develop a window to the other side, so we might see AE as if in a mirror dimly, and perhaps persuade him to come back. Mr. Dignam here being newly deceased

Paddy Dignam: I’m not dead!

Lizzie Twigg: Being newly deceased Mr. Dignam will have a particularly lifelike etheric double, so he might be able to speak most clearly to AE and relay a message from us. Ideally we would need the finest man, with the finest purest character, the noblest, the truest.

Cassandra: But Dignam will have to do.

Lizzie Twigg: Well, yes. So, Cassandra, are you ready?

Cassandra: [While fluttering her hands] Oh AE, returned falsely to mortal haunts, sun of our morning, fleet be your foot on the bracken: AE of the beamy brow. Wail Banba with the wind.

Banba: Krak!

Māyā: लूक, अ दिं मिर्रोर, इ सी हिं !

Lizzie Twigg: AE! Ok, Mr. Dignam, stick your head in there and tell him to come back!

Cassandra: We call upon the etheric double of Paddy Dignam to speak his message to the living.

Paddy Dignam: [Inserting his head into the mirror] Alf! Alf Bergan! If you see my son tell him my boots are behind the commode!

Cassandra: Oh Christ, haul him back in. I told you this wouldn’t work.

You’re reading me. Oh my God I feel you. Wow. Are you shitting me? I can’t believe this shit I see you. Holy freaking shit. Ok. Ok. I’m cool be cool. Um. yeah. Now this is real. I’m real. I thought about this. I was just thinking about this. No way dude. I wanted you to read me and here you are. Wow. This shit will knock you into the middle of next week. So. Right before I thought about what it would be like when you read about my dad dying and think about me how sad, I had an argument with myself. The me on the left was thinking about how damn glad I am to be the hell out of there. I can’t take any more crying, mostly without tears. Uncle Barney leaping in to take care of everything, sending me off with five bucks for pork steaks and wanting change back. Wow. I snuck some of that sherry from Tunney’s which was super gross, give me a minute. I’m still blown away. Anyway. Then the other me on the right, my left when I’m looking at you was thinking about the fight. Cinco de Mayo, I missed it. Floyd Mayweather Jr and Miguel Cotto. Mayweather is the best in the world. He’s got the brains for it even after getting head butted by Victor Ortiz. Accurate. Best technical fighter. Brutal too, going to jail for beating up his girlfriend. But they want him to fight Cotto first. Money talks then he walks. Mayweather wants it, but Cotto wants it more. He’s a bleeder, so he puts on a good show, and he’s hot for it. He had a point to prove against Margarito’s plaster hand wraps and he’s back baby. And he’s at peace and peaceful is more dangerous than angry in a fight. I should know. Dad was perfectly calm when he belted me over that picture of naked Lady Gaga. I wonder if my friends will read this too? See it online somewhere maybe. See I’m in mourning, dressed for a funeral. Did you see that guy just now with the red flower in his mouth? Smiling at that drunk he was listening to. See what he was wearing? Buttonholes on my shirt are too big. Keep slipping open. God it was brutal, the whole thing from dad drunk to his grey face with that big fly crawling on it. The big coffin. Why was that? That last night. Dad was wasted he looked so short, shouting loud for his boots so he could go out, get more drunk. He could have knocked out Mayweather that night easy. Now I’ll never see him again. His drunk red face. Death. Dad is dead. He tried to talk to me, lips moving couldn’t get it out past his teeth, but I heard him tell me to be a god son to mom. You’re a good kid, be a good son to your mother. Tried to say more. Poor dad. He was my dad. He went to Father Conroy for confession so I hope he’s in purgatory now. My father. Mr. Patrick Dignam.

Sit to it. A charming day to begin. Sit down and take a walk. Yes, my protagonist a listless lady, no more young. Aged and virtuous and badtempered woman. I must write it without nostalgia. Throw in local color. All I know. The onelegged sailor on crutches just now? Angry. Growling. Not right for my little book. Post traumatic, you see, home from war, leg left behind. O Lord, look upon Thy servant laboring under bodily weakness. Cherish and receive the soul which Thou hast created, so that, purified by his sufferings, he may soon find himself healed by Thy mercy. Through Christ our Lord. A charming woman with such a, what should I say? Such a queenly mein. Did she commit adultery fully with her husband’s brother? Eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris? Only her confessor would know and we never tell. Secrets. God created the sexual drive for more than procreation but why? The ways of God are not our ways. I’ve heard much from our good people. An aged and virtuous and badtempered woman wants to keep confessing. Bless you my child now get on with you. Bless you my child. Off you go. Amen. Amen now. I bear your secrets confessed. Now the book. A woman like Mrs. Sheehy, two boys. Young, delightful boys. Wonderful little schoolboys. Asked after Father Vaughan, his sermon on Pilate impressed her. Simple, respectable woman. He has been transferred again to another parish. He won’t be back. The ways of God are not our ways. But my little book. A woman perhaps like Mrs. McGuinness, stately like Mary, Queen of Scots. A pawnbroker, imagine that. Doing quite well these days. What time is it? The ninth hour. The death of Christ, his descent into hell. People are more open to temptation at this hour. More than any other time. I must be guarded. Protect my soul, God’s soul if one might say, created by God. We die a bit in this hour; our souls descend to hell. In this hour Adam and Eve, serpent plagued, were driven from the garden. Viperous temptations. And fasting. Don’t eat of the fruit. Don’t eat of anything. Nothing into the mouth. Respectful, grave, Mr. Denis J Maginni professor of dancing and much else surprises passersby with the contrasting effect of a serious disposition with tight lavender skinnyjeans. This is the hour schoolboys leave their lessons and raise their young mouths in play, young cries in the quiet. Schoolboys, good boys. What was that boy’s name? Dignam. Yes. Martin Cunningham’s request. Yes. Yes indeed. Oblige him if possible. Youthful bodies bounding in play. Good boys at school. Good little men. Grow up. Become like the young man and his young woman emerging from the shrubberies. God’s ways are not our ways. His face, flushed looking two ways toward terror and pity. Rubbing his groin in his pockets. Looks two ways toward desire and loathing. Rubbing his groin. A hooded reptilian face. poignant eyes, reptile like. Self-embittered: a shriveled soul. That tyrannous incontinence necessary to maintain our race on earth. Then death to so many, and so many unprepared. Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed then give them to Corny Kelleher to prepare for burial. I feel it incumbent upon myself to say a few words before I descend into excessive solemnity. I like cheerful decorum. Perhaps I will join them together, bride and bridegroom. Beautiful weather today. A charming day. Delightful indeed. A peaceful day.